


As Far's the Pole and Line

by blasted_heath



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Companionable Snark, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Making fun of Victorian society, Post-Canon Fix-It, Victorians doing Victorian things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-22 06:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17657651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath
Summary: Captain James Fitzjames was perhaps one of the most eligible bachelors in the entire city of London. Possessed of both fame and uncommonly handsome features (and hair that just barely hinted at turning grey about the temples), the hero of Sir John Franklin’s lost expedition also retained, at forty, the energy and enthusiasm of a man half his age....A man who was such a credit to the Royal Navy ought to be seen, framed in the glamour of society, not hidden away somewhere on the dismal, windswept moors. But the increasingly apparent truth, although London would never admit it, was that while Captain Fitzjames might be as eligible a bachelor as ever lived, he was determined to remain a confirmed one as well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Robert Burns poem:
> 
>  _Though cruel Fate should bid us part,_  
>  _As far's the Pole and Line,_  
>  _Her dear idea round my heart_  
>  _Should tenderly entwine._
> 
> _Though mountains frown and deserts howl,_  
>  _And oceans roar between;_  
>  _Yet dearer than my deathless soul,_  
>  _I still would love my Jean._
> 
> I could not pass up a poem that referred to both the polar regions and the meridian line! Even if there is no one here named Jean... *handwave*

_Autumn, 1853_

Captain James Fitzjames was perhaps one of the most eligible bachelors in the entire city of London. Possessed of both fame and uncommonly handsome features (and hair that just barely hinted at turning grey about the temples), the hero of Sir John Franklin’s lost expedition also retained, at forty, the energy and enthusiasm of a man half his age. His amiability and wit were matters of legend; they must be so, for while he was one of the most desirable guests at any dinner or function during the London Season, he was also among the most elusive. He managed to maintain his reputation as the most eligible man in the city, in fact, while hardly ever being in the city at all.

Many ladies had determined it to be a true mark of being out in society, in fact, to be able to say that they had been present for the recounting of one of his stories. It was even more to their credit if the story had involved some great unimaginable polar creature— _did he say that he had seen a two-tusked whale? Did such things exist? Oh, certainly not!_ —and further yet if they could relate the entire story themselves, without realizing they had lost the narrative on account of how unnaturally perfect his smile was, given especially that some of his teeth were rumoured to be false. The fact that he counted among his friends the equally glamorous (though long-claimed) Sir James Ross, and was occasionally known to appear in public with him, only added to his charm. The sight of the two captains of the lost HMS _Erebus_ , together— _perhaps arm-in-arm, even!_ —was enough to send a London ballroom into stunned, enamoured silence. 

It was London’s great shame, however, that even if he did come to the city, he could hardly ever be persuaded to remain for any length of time. He was often away from Britain entirely, of course, but when he was not away he preferred to spend his time, remarkably, not in the south, but in the north. That his closest friend in all of Britain should be his fellow polar veteran Sir Francis Crozier was a surprise to no one. But that he should choose to spend his time ashore lodging in an Irishman’s country home in Yorkshire was implausible at best. A knighted hero Crozier may have been, but he was a man for whom society held no charm, and whose reserved nature denied all the charm he may have held for society. It was merely a shame that a man with such a distinguished career as his could be so disinclined to conversation, but the fact that he had yet managed to be blessed with continual access to _Fitzjames_ ’s conversation was positively unforgivable. What right had he to deprive the city of such a splendid figure?

A man who was such a credit to the Royal Navy ought to be seen, framed in the glamour of society, not hidden away somewhere on the dismal, windswept moors. But the increasingly apparent truth, although London would never admit it, was that while Captain Fitzjames might be as _eligible_ a bachelor as ever lived, he was determined to remain a confirmed one as well. 

\---

__

_Spring, 1850_

Yorkshire, as it happened, had in fact been James’s idea. _I am quite through with London_ , he had told Francis, perfectly matter-of-factly one day while regarding the city from Greenwich Park, and found his sentiments immediately matched.

The Park had been his idea as well; it was only a short walk from Blackheath, he had reasoned, and he would go mad if he was forced to remain indoors for one more day. “It’s spring,” he had countered to Francis’s quite sensible protest that the sky was grey and threatening rain, again. “It _always_ looks like that. I have no notion of what you’ve come to expect in Ireland, but in London and its environs, it rains. Or it doesn’t really, most of the time, but luckily the rest of the population seems to suffer under the same delusion as you that the sky is to be trusted. We’ll likely be the only ones there. It’s much more picturesque that way, in any case.” 

So James had triumphed without an argument, and they walked out into the dreary morning, exchanging the joyless heath for the winding paths of the Park, all lined with trees that were newly green. James certainly did appear much the better for it, as they climbed a hill from which the entire town lay out before them, with a clear view to the city beyond. The man really ought not be contained. He had flung himself down easily on the grass, propping up his legs and leaning forward with his arms across his knees. 

“See?” He had asked, victorious. “No rain, and no one else here.” 

“Not even a pensioner in sight,” Francis agreed, dryly, surveying the hilltop and grumbling about the grace with which James could simply sprawl himself and his long legs out wherever he liked. “Unless of course you are lax with your definitions and count myself,” he went on, sinking down against a nearby tree, badly disguising the fact that this was not as simple a task as he would have liked it to be. “But I shall have to defer to you for any amusing and extremely dubious yarns.” 

“I do not tell _yarns_ , Francis, and when I do they are most certainly not dubious. Besides which, I have much more respectable pastimes in which to engage.” He had been carrying a book, which he now dropped into his lap with a flourish, and began digging for something in his coat pockets. 

“I still can’t believe you brought that, given the weather.” 

“Oh, come off it. I _promise_ it will not rain. And besides, this is a new one.” 

Of course it was. James always had been accomplished at drawing, but now he was positively enthralled with it. The press had discovered his expedition journals with more speed than even Francis had expected, and James, with his uncanny ability to make himself well-liked in any circle, had managed to forge a friendship with Mr. Westall on the basis of— all things—their mutual origins in Hertfordshire. James’s Arctic scenes had thus become more popular than even Westall’s engravings of the _Hecla_ and _Griper_ had ever been, preoccupied as the nation was with the expedition’s apparent return from the dead. 

Francis could not begrudge James anything that brought him joy, but he did delight in teasing him for the fact that he was lately buying more books than any man could reasonably use in years. Then again, James Fitzjames was never a man to have grasped the concept of “half-hearted” when it came to any enterprise he undertook. 

“So I suspect it must be oilcloth, then? You might have tried for sealskin.” 

James scowled and mimed throwing the pencil he was now holding at Francis’s head. 

Francis laughed and leaned his head back against the tree. Best to leave James to his pursuits in peace. Somewhere above him a chaffinch was chattering away in the branches, fanning out its tail and hopping angrily from one branch to the next. He raised his eyebrow at it. Of course, James could appear at one with his surroundings in an instant, and yet here nature appeared to object to Francis for merely _sitting_. He glanced sideways toward the city with equal suspicion, but closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again the scene was much darker, although he could not guess how much later. The sky had turned iron grey, clouds moving swiftly over the city in the distance. In the dimmed light the colors of the hillside and the tree above had grown preternaturally intense; by contrast the marble of Greenwich below seemed to glow of its own accord. He had never himself thought much about the visual merits of of spring storms on land—at sea they meant something different altogether—but in his half-drowsy state it occurred to him that James may not have entirely exaggerated in his description of what he considered _picturesque_. James, it appeared, was entirely unconcerned; in fact he had taken off his coat, and that, combined with the way the wind was undoing the normally tidy arrangement of his hair, gave the impression that he was determined to become just as picturesque himself. 

“Ever thought of drawing a self-portrait in some wild landscape?” Francis called out, quietly so as not to startle him. “I hear it’s rather the fashion lately.” 

“Ah, so you’re awake are you? I was beginning to wonder...it has been some time. Over an hour in fact.” 

“Really? Well I hope that if I’ve ended up in that scene of yours you don’t send it to the printers. Any figure sleeping under a tree in Greenwich seems to lose a limb or so, or to be referred to as a _sheer hulk_ or some such nonsense.”

James grinned widely. “Well, I _could_ …”

“James…” 

“... But I did not. I already anticipated your reaction. I dare say there are enough more accurate portraits of you circulating now, and I know how much you complained about even those.” He closed his book and stretched out his legs, which only made him look more elegant in his disheveled state. “And no, I have not thought of doing the self-portrait you suggest. I have no concept as to whether I look the part.”

“Well. _I_ certainly have.” 

James looked sideways at him, skeptically, but saying nothing about it, turned back to face the city and the river. The sound of thunder was drawing closer now, and the entire hillside chattered with the sound of blackbirds singing out their concerns at the atmosphere. “I was not entirely wrong, though, was I?” he asked, nodding at the scene before them. 

“No, you weren’t,” Francis agreed, although he had not looked away from James at all. “I find you were quite correct, in fact.” 

James looked predictably shocked at not being contradicted in this. He stood, slowly. “I must admit, though, I feel I am quite through with London.” 

“With drawing it, you mean? You’ve finally surrendered to the weather, then?” 

James smiled and walked towards him. “Now you’re thinking like a civilian in your retirement. You know as well as I that that is miles away, and moving along the river. It will not touch us.” He held out his hands and _laughed_ , looking over his shoulder as a band of lightning struck somewhere well away in the east beyond the city, proving his point. 

Rather than allowing himself to be hauled upwards, Francis took both of James’s hands and pulled him down, gently enough that he would not lose his footing, but not enough that he could be entirely graceful about sitting down next to him. “I do believe you may have gone mad after all. Although, then again I must be mad myself, following you here.” But he laughed as well. James had run a hand through his hair in an attempt to push it back into place, but had only made it worse. The weather had made it curl more than usual, and one of the curls was now falling devastatingly, but too long, over his forehead. James glanced up and crossed his eyes at it, but Francis could not bring himself to reach out and comb it out of the way, as he normally would. “Christ, you’re--” 

“Francis,” James interrupted. “I meant entirely. I wish to be done with London entirely.”

Francis only stared. 

“Sitting here and _seeing_ it is lovely, in its way. In many ways. But being in the city, or near it… I can feel it, always, and I don’t wish for that anymore. I only say this since I know you don’t particularly care for it yourself. I know it was your choice to live here, but that was when we first made it back, and it was convenient. If you ever chose to leave I would not object, and I would follow you gladly.” 

Francis nodded, easily, but his eyes glinted. “Am I to understand that the great Captain Fitzjames, beloved of society, now wishes instead to live _in the country?_ ” 

James rolled his eyes. “If I told you that it was fashionable, would you be more inclined to believe me?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Well then, it is _fashionable_. Anyone who wishes to appear at leisure and connected with the ancients has a country house.” 

“ _Ancients_ , James? Do you perhaps mean the Tudors?” 

“I mean that the books would have people believe bloody King Arthur but that isn’t to the point! I mean that that is other men’s justification. My justification is that I have grown tired of the city, and I have no doubt the Admiralty will soon call me away on some equally “ancient” mission, and I want to be able to come home and be at peace. I don’t want to rush about or have other people telling me where I ought to be on any given day. I mean that—laugh at me if you will—I am not as young as I was when you met me.” 

“Ah, yes. Time. It does work that way. But you are—“

“Thirty-seven. And I am very nearly thirty-eight. Which is far old enough to know my own mind, I think you’ll agree. Were you happy to be paraded about society at that point?”

“More so than I am now.” 

“Alright, that was a wrong question. _Anyone_ is more interested in society than you are now. But why do you insist on making this difficult?” 

Francis rearranged his expression into something more collected than the perpetually-amused grin he had been wearing. “I apologize, James. I only teased you because I believed my answer was evident: Of course. I will leave Blackheath, and London, gladly, and even more gladly if it is your intention to follow me. And if it makes you happy.” He finally did reach out to straighten James’s hair into place, and then turned him by the shoulders to lean back against him. “We _are_ alone here,” he added as an aside to James’s suddenly-concerned expression. “As you have often reminded me.”

He pulled one of his knees forward to support his arm and kept a hand on James’s shoulder. “Where was it you hoped to remove to, then? I doubt you were thinking of coming back to Ireland with me. That might be somewhat...obvious.”

“Ah, and you’ve never been _obvious_ in your life, I believe.” He wrapped his fingers around Francis’s other hand, which had worked its way around him and was fidgeting absent-mindedly with his watch-chain. “What exactly are you—?” He laughed quietly. “Never mind. But no. Unless you think I should like it there.” 

“Not particularly.” 

“Yorkshire, then,” James said without hesitation. 

“ _Yorkshire_? I gather you have thought quite a lot about this but—you’d go north, James? The north is...dark and...what did that poet of yours call it?”

“It is _not_ dark and Satanic. Not all of it, at least. And that isn’t even what he was talking about.” He turned his head so their eyes might meet. Then deciding this was not enough, he pushed himself out of Francis’s arms, half-standing and adjusting his position to one wherein he faced him entirely. 

“Think of it,” he went on, dropping himself down again and waving his hand in an enthusiastic gesture. “We would be almost as far from here as possible, but could easily return by rail if we had to. We have friends in the north now, so we would not be entirely isolated—but we could have privacy. For once in our lives, and unlike here. No one could force us to be anywhere we did not already wish to be, unless they tried it by post. I cannot think of anything that suits you better.” 

“Yes, but does it suit _you_ to be so removed from…” Francis smirked and gestured toward the foggy and dismal-looking city, “...civilization?”

“It’s not barren wasteland, Francis! Christ. York is a perfectly civilized city. And like I said, the railways exist now, as hard as it may be for you to become accustomed to them.”

Francis squinted at him. 

“And as for _fashionable_ , since you asked me earlier, it is about as ancient a city as you can find without going to bloody Bath, where, by the way, I will never set foot if I can help it. You must be aware of that. And the landscape, and the ruins are famous…”

“You’ve been looking in too many printsellers’ windows, James. Why this sudden fascination with everything _ancient_?” 

Now James squinted in irritation. “I have _always_ liked old things. Just because we have not been _in England_ for most of our acquaintance does not mean—“

But to James’s apparent horror, Francis was now laughing as if he had just said the most amusing thing in the world. “Oh! So now it becomes clear,” he said, struggling to maintain an even voice. He bit his lip and leaned forward. “ _I love every thing that's old,_ is that it? _Old times, old books, and I believe you’ve been pretty fond of an old—_ "

“ _Francis!_ ” James wailed, pushing his hand against his shoulder and realising too late that he had only followed the sentence to its logical conclusion. 

Francis collapsed back against the tree, pretending to have been forced back by James’s hand. James scrambled awkwardly over to sit beside him again. “What even was that?”

“An old play,” Francis said, short of breath and running a hand over his eyes. “Goldsmith. Never mind.”

“Well, in any case, why are you still making this difficult?”

“Because you are most amusing when provoked.” He threw both arms around James’s waist abruptly and pulled him back again, eliciting a startled yelp from him as he did. 

“The answer is still _yes_ , of course. Which is why I have been teasing you. I have no attachments to any place in particular, so I shall be pleased to go wherever you decide.” He tilted his head against James’s hair and spoke quietly behind his ear. “ _Especially_ now that I know you have ruled out Bath.” 

“Hm, so there is at least one matter on which we are agreed? Fascinating.” 

“Whole-heartedly. If I must observe a crowd of preening, damned self-important _English_ people, I need not go to Bath. The Admiralty has provided quite enough opportunity for observation for one lifetime, and I am content to have left that behind.” 

“Hm,” was all James said, again, but he did settle further back into Francis’s shoulder, shivering once as a sudden gust of wind rustled around them. He was still without the coat that he had removed earlier. Francis, however, obligingly ran both hands along his arms, smoothing over the folds of his shirt sleeves and grasping him gently above the elbows, before reaching around to pull him into an embrace that may have been somewhat warmer, for all that it pinned his arms down entirely. 

They remained in this way, at ease together in the solitude of the park, and watching the light and shadow that drifted its way over London, for several silent minutes until James spoke again. “You’re certain?"

“I am. What else have I to do but wander about this island in my retirement? You know I should like it of all things to never be bothered by city entanglements again. And I dare say you are right, that it is expected of me, now.”

James turned to face him, affecting the utmost astonishment. “What’s that? There is even one thing in which you’ll willingly defer to society’s expectations?”

“Only because it benefits me, I assure you.” 

“Well, society shall likely rejoice that you have made some effort, finally, whatever the reason. After all, your doings on shore are quite clearly of more interest than your actual career.” He grinned with both fondness and amusement at the thought. “You know that you _have_ made it obscenely difficult, for anyone to remember who you are now,” he continued, and reached across to drape both wrists around his shoulders. “ _Sir Francis Crozier._ ”

Francis frowned. He had never grown used to, nor particularly enjoyed the sound of those words together, as much as James seemed to delight in them. “You know I am the least suited man to that title in all of Britain and Ireland combined.” 

James ran a hand along the collar of his woefully-outdated coat, the curve at the corner of his mouth suggesting the difficulty he faced in not teasing him for it. “You are certainly the most surly about it, I’ll agree.” His hand had travelled from the collar down to the lapel now, and remained there. “But I promise you there is no one in all of Britain who has heard of your experience and yet doubts how well _suited_ you are. Even if few will ever understand as well as I do.” His smile was entirely sincere now, yet Francis said nothing in response—only nodded awkwardly, if only to humour him.

Sighing into the silence that followed, James stood up, pushing himself off Francis’s shoulders. “In any case,” he continued, and turned to gather the things he had left strewn across the ground. “It’s perhaps best to leave them to their half-formed narratives. It will likely drive society mad that they cannot subject you to their battery of inquiries and demands for one anecdote or another, you know.” He laughed quietly to himself and strode back, shrugging on his coat with an air of unbounded satisfaction. “That is when they can, in fact, only endeavour to deserve you.” 

“James, where are you going with this?” Francis, who would never be accustomed to flattery, appeared unable to decide whether to be agitated or amused.

“You know perfectly well.” He held out his hand. “Now are you coming along?”

“Surely you don’t intend to make this escape of yours immediately?” Francis asked with feigned concern. 

“No. But I do intend to complete my circuit of the park—there are still _some_ things to be enjoyed, after all. Now will you take my hand or do I have to forcibly remove you from this hill? I do recall that is in fact rather a sport in Greenwich in spring…”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Perhaps.” James pulled Francis to his feet and tilted his head with a teasing grin. “Would you prefer to see me try?” He had one arm securely around his back now, but otherwise thrust a hand firmly against his shoulder as if to send him tumbling down the hill like a youth at the fair. 

“Most certainly not!” he growled, tearing himself from James’s grasp. With surprising agility for a man who had spent the past two hours fairly planted in the same spot, he made a dash for the nearest pathway, leaving James to follow, still laughing, behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By "two-tusked whale," I mean a two-tusked narwhal--a creature that does exist, but rarely! Here is an [1805 British print](https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47d9-520b-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99) of one. 
> 
> I am sorry that only Francis received a knighthood in this. I know that James deserved it as well, but it was simply not _done_ to knight both an expedition First and Second after their return from one of the polar regions. 
> 
> Greenwich was the site of the Royal Naval Hospital, where certain veterans who had been injured in the service were given lodging in addition to their pension. These "Greenwich Pensioners," known by their distinctive uniforms, became stock characters in British literature and prints, often depicted with missing limbs or eyes, and known for good cheer and the telling of probably-exaggerated stories. They also were often compared to old ships that had been retired from service, which is where Francis gets the "sheer hulk" reference. 
> 
> Mr. Westall is William Westall, a landscape artist and engraver. He engraved Frederick Beechey's drawings from the first Parry expedition, including the [iceberg](https://jcb.lunaimaging.com/luna/servlet/detail/JCB~1~1~3953~6250004:Iceberg-in-Baffin-s-Bay,-July-1819-) I mentioned in an earlier story. 
> 
> "Dark and Satanic" refers to the poem "Jerusalem" by William Blake, which makes mention of Britain's "dark, Satanic Mills." He was not particularly referring to the north of the country, but since the north was home to several notable industrial towns (namely Manchester) I figured it applied. 
> 
> Country homes were indeed very fashionable in the mid-19th century, and the older the better. Britain had become obsessed with ruins, the countryside, and old buildings. In talking about Yorkshire and its landscape and famous ruins, James is mostly talking about J. M. W. Turner's depictions of the region, including this one of [St. Mary's Abbey](http://www.bmagic.org.uk/objects/1913P10). (Fun fact: if you go to York you can do a self-guided Turner walking trail!) 
> 
> "I love every thing that's old," is a quote from _She Stoops to Conquer_ by Oliver Goldsmith. The full quote is "I love every thing that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and, I believe, Dorothy, you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife," but Francis of course is paraphrasing. 
> 
> Greenwich was the site of an annual spring fair from the late 18th century through the mid-19th. It was basically a sideshow/carnival in town and several days of festivities in the park. One of the hallmarks of the fair, which James refers to, was the tradition of "tumbling" on One Tree Hill, which honestly just cracks me up because I love the image of Victorians in their fancy voluminous clothing rolling down a hill. The fair still existed in 1850, but the railway system had resulted in it being extremely crowded every year, and the locals complained about debauchery and general lack of morality, so it was shut down in 1857.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's May 1850, and London is abuzz with preparations for a commemoration of John Franklin--five years since the expedition sailed. The city is fascinated with the presence of our seemingly-resurrected polar heroes, but James and Francis are appalled by some of the ways the city has chosen to represent their experiences, and Francis in particular is forced to confront some dismal memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I just had to get a bit of angst into this story! I promise the next chapter will be happier. But I started thinking of how James and Francis might react to London's "Arctic Fever" if they had survived, and this happened. 
> 
> BE WARNED, I make not-so-thinly veiled references to cannibalism. 
> 
> For the purposes of my story, the timeline diverged somewhere after episode 7. As per a historical theory, the abandonment was temporary, and the ships were remanned as it was discovered that leads were open. The ships made it part way down the west coast of King William Island before being frozen in again.The real struggle set in the next spring, at which point a second abandonment took place, with the men traveling in several groups. 
> 
> (At some point I'll swallow my pride and admit that I'm just writing Franklin Expedition fanfiction at this point, and just trying to shoehorn it into the show, _but it is not this day_.)

_May, 1850_

London, Francis had to admit, had been good for many things in its time. At first, it had been convenient, while he and James had been obliged to endure the barrage of press inquiries, courts martial, and generalised public curiosity with which their sensational reappearance had been attended. But in the months following their return, London had neither lacked for comfort nor welcome. James Ross, the saviour of the expedition, was a constant presence: always Francis's devoted friend, and now equally devoted to Fitzjames by extension, he had opened his home in Blackheath to them both until they were able to secure their own situation. And once such a situation was established, London was thankfully a city that would bat no eyes at the concept of two unmarried gentlemen living together under the same roof.

The fellowship of the three polar heroes of Blackheath was a great source of delight for the city, as well: an Irishman, a Scotsman, and an Englishman, having become inseparable through the common bond of their shared hardships in the Service, was too tempting an image to be wasted. _Punch_ in particular had wasted no time in portraying this Act of Union—with the three figures accompanied of course by Neptune, the ship’s dog of _Terror_ whose own survival was regarded as a more stirring parable of loyalty in the Navy than the memoirs of any man.

London had its pleasures, but Francis had no difficulty in understanding why even the usually-sociable James Fitzjames had grown tired of it. James had made repeatedly-optimistic comments about the deception of the London spring, but in the end the season had been nothing other than truly dismal. The city seemed, indeed, determined to prove that every cliché regarding its atmosphere was absolute fact. Even if one were able discern what lay outside one’s window, through the currents of water that streamed over the glass and stuck there even when the rain had ceased, it would be to no purpose—one would find only endless stretches of mud and countless new-formed rivulets that coursed their way through it. 

It did feel incongruous to be discouraged by rain, of all things. Even a year ago, Francis might have convinced himself that he would endure an eternity of English fog, and all the mud that Blackheath had ever produced, if only it meant that he would never set foot in the ice again. Had they not all determined, there in King William Land, that an English home and the warmth of an English fire were the bounds of ultimate contentment? Such perspective naturally faded, of course, once those comforts had actually been achieved, but Francis might still have borne it with stoicism, had he no one to consider but himself. He had years of practice in self-denial, after all. And as it was, no external factors could convince him that his _personal_ circumstances were not nearer to perfect than they ever had been, having left the Navy, the Discovery Service, and the blasted Admiralty all behind him. 

The reality, though, was that he no longer did have _only_ himself to consider; and that reality, knowing that by some miracle he had managed to sit down content at the end of his far-too-eventful career, secure in this quiet retirement with the companionship of James Fitzjames, was all the comfort he ever need hope for. But James, ever a marvel of spirit (Francis could only presume that every one of his confrontations with mortality had conspired to him _more_ strong-willed), could hardly abide a settled life, let alone one wherein a man could only rarely find reason to leave his own home. He had not yet indicated anything approaching eagerness to return to sea, despite his constant grumbling about the inconveniences of half-pay; it was not that the nature of life on land disappointed him, after all, and certainly the nature of his current situation was no disappointment either. But the constancy of a single place, unchanging and offering no new respite, grated at him. 

Francis could not be surprised, then, that James was currently lounging with an untethered expression in the chair across from him, expounding upon his newest scheme for abandoning England forthwith and embarking on a Grand Tour of the continent. It was not the first time he had done so, marching into the sitting room where Francis had been diligently annotating the latest edition of the _Philosophical Transactions_ with a furrowed brow, plucking the book from his hands and proceeding to use it, seemingly at a loss for where to lay it down, as a prop for accentuating the already outrageous gestures of his arms. He was presently looking particularly despondent in the awkward angle at which he was forced to sit, head tilted into his hand and staring down and the shaggy form of Neptune, who occupied a great swath of floor by the fireplace and blocked the normal range of his legs. 

“I can’t say I don’t see your point,” Francis was saying, indulging James’s outlandish plot but cutting him off in the middle of an impassioned monologue on Gothic architecture. “I do have some experience in the matter of Grand Tours, you’ll recall, having once done it myself.” 

He watched with intrigue as James petulantly extended one stockinged foot and began brushing it through the intrusive dog’s fur, clearly awaiting some imminent verbal defeat.

“But, I also can assure you that it does nothing to change one’s situation,” Francis concluded, prompting the expected eye roll from James. “I found myself much the same man at the end as I was when I began, I mean. And that was just before you met me, so you’ll recall _exactly_ what good it had done. Now what would I do if I sent you off to the same fate and _you_ come back a dreadful misanthrope? Some pair we would make.”

Francis was still wearing the spectacles he used for reading (the ones that James had always found endlessly amusing), and the beseeching look he shot James over the lenses was so embellished that James visibly struggled to prevent a laugh breaking through his veneer of dejection. “You did not have me with you then,” James stated matter-of-factly. “I was of course hoping you would come with me.”

But Francis looked aghast. “I can’t very well just _leave_ ; not without any forethought on the matter. I thought your plan was to turn me into a country gentleman, not make me leave the country entirely.” 

“Well, perhaps that can wait.”

Francis sighed and waved a hand at the air, realising with mild concern that he was beginning to emulate James’s own mannerisms. “I must admit I fail to see how all these plans of yours fit together.” 

“You’d ask me to determine my life in advance? I’ve never put much forethought into personal matters. Don’t see why I should start now.” 

“Oh, truly? I would have thought you had your entire life written out in narrative verse, decades into the future. I am shocked at you.” 

James glared at him, but something twitched in the sides of his face as he still stifled a laugh. “Ah, yes, of course,” he muttered, looking back at his feet, “I did try, but for one reason or another I took it upon myself to include an Irish character with too many names and it devolved into twelve cantos of indecipherable arguments. Lost track after that.”

“ _James!_ ” Francis laughed, but had little time to do so before the man in question groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face, taking the dregs of his amusement with them. 

“I understand, Francis. Truly I do; and in any case I can’t expect the Admiralty would grant me leave for any longer than they already have. I wish I had your capacity for contentment, but good God! I must be allowed to look upon some other scene than _this_.” James punctuated this last sentence by moving his hand in a broad sweeping gesture at the dreary windows behind Francis’s head.

Francis glanced over his shoulder, but pretending to find nothing there, turned around in feigned confusion. “Other than what? An English sitting room or an Irishman with too many names?”

“Oh no, Francis, be serious—“

“I am! I hear this fellow drives you mad with arguments and now you talk about escaping the very scene where—“

James shouted something that may have equally been laughter or frustration, and bolted out of his chair. “Now _you_ ,” he began, waving the book he still held at the height of Francis's shoulders. “Francis Rawdon Moir— _Ah, Jesus!_ ”

Francis had grabbed the book from out of James’s grasp, and slid his hand up to James’s elbow, pulling him forward so that his knee was pushed up against the cushions. From there it took only the slightest movement for Francis to pull him down onto the sofa, so that he found himself fairly on top of the man with whom he was supposed to be arguing. 

“You are driving me mad this very minute,” he concluded.

“Oh, am I?” 

“To more than the usual degree, in fact.” 

“Is it because you are mad that you are laughing, then?” 

“I am _not_ —“ James began to protest, but halted at the sensation of fingertips against the side of his face, tracing the lines that appeared there without fail when he smiled.

“Liar.”

James rolled his eyes again and reached out a hand to mirror the one that now danced over the curve of his cheekbone. “Bloody impossible to have a conversation with, you are,” he decided, leaning forward and abandoning the notion of conversation altogether. 

———

James had given no more hint of distress that evening, but in his spirits, as in all things, he was not a man to be so easily swayed. Come morning, Francis had risen at what he considered to be perfectly reasonable hour, only to find the other man still abed when the morning was almost over. It was not the first time for this, either, and once again as he wandered back upstairs he cursed the lack of privacy that necessitated separate rooms in the house. Perhaps James had been right to suggest wandering unobserved around Europe, on those grounds alone. But for now he sighed as he reached James’s door, and resolved that he would have to be the cheerful one again, today. 

“Well good morning to you too,” he announced into the silent room, and crossed to sit on the edge of the bed. James’s eyes were closed, but the bed curtains had already been pulled aside, and he was quite clearly awake despite his best attempts to look otherwise.

“You aren’t fooling anyone, you know. You _are_ well, are you not?” 

“I’m fine,” James grumbled, still not opening his eyes.

“You can’t very well lie here all day, then.” 

“Hm. I think you’ll find I can. What exactly do you propose is so urgent today? Or honestly any day anymore?” He opened his eyes and nodded towards the window, clearly still dark even behind the drawn curtains. 

“My own desire for your company of course. I do regret being made to come up _here_ for the pleasure of your conversation.” Francis swung his legs up onto the bed and propped his head on one elbow to look James in the eye, laying a hand on his arm under the covers. 

“And yet here you are.” 

“Obviously desperate measures were required.”

“And I suppose my conversation is just as enthralling as you expected?” 

“Always, James.” He trailed one finger across the man’s collarbone and down the hard line at the center of his chest, pleasantly surprised when his hand was not swatted aside in irritation. “Now you could at least join me downstairs.” 

“Francis, if you persist in this...if you force me to leave this room, I swear I have a mind to wander out into the rain with no aim whatsoever. _That_ would at least be somewhat of a novelty.” 

“Are you saying that the prospect of myself, fully dressed for the day and yet lying in this nest you call a bed, listening to you list your various grievances, is no longer a novelty?”

“ _Francis_.” 

“Alright. I could not confess myself surprised if you did something so ridiculous.” He reached his hand across to trace up and down James’s other arm. “But of course you need not do anything _quite_ so drastic.” 

James’s hand finally found its way out of the blankets to cover his, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth was the only other sign he gave as to his thoughts. 

———

Francis had long realised that he ought never be surprised by _anything_ that James took it into his head to do. So by all accounts there should have been no shock in realising that James had been entirely serious about his desperation for diversion, and that he fully intended to do exactly what he had intimated. On observing the man fairly storming out of the house with barely a word, Francis could only shake his head and wait for events to proceed to their inevitable conclusion. It was, of course, to London’s great credit that fashion allowed men to be reasonably armed against a veritable barrage of weather, but Francis personally doubted the efficacy of _any_ garment against the current state of affairs. 

He might have been entirely self-satisfied, therefore, at his own skepticism, when James returned some time later, predictably soaked through, but for the fact that the man also looked positively livid. Francis had peered out into the hallway with the intention of teasing him, but had found instead that James was already halfway up the stairs, not having bothered to remove his overcoat and thus trailing rainwater behind him. With a look of sympathy at the understandably-startled housekeeper, indicating that he would handle the matter, Francis could only follow meekly and hope that he did not meet with a door closed hurriedly in his face. 

“Good God, man,” he began, having found himself thankfully admitted into James’s bedchamber without argument, but still at a loss for how to address the situation. “What exactly—? James, you look like—“

“Don’t patronise me,” James snapped, turning on his heel and fumbling to remove his coat.

“I’m not patronising you. _Concerned_ , of course, and I think understandably, when you come home looking like you jumped in the damn Mersey again—“

James scowled at this, and threw his overcoat at the bed, where Francis narrowly caught it before it could start drenching the coverlet. 

“Although you appear more like to be contemplating pushing someone in than pulling them out,” he continued, depositing the coat on a side chair instead. 

James’s mouth curled in what appeared like grim satisfaction at the thought, but he simply continued pulling off layers of rain-soaked clothing, dropping his frock coat on the same chair and moving on to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. 

Francis leaned against one of the bedposts and looked on in silence, internally debating whether he could expect James to offer any information without prompting. “Honestly, who is it that deserves your vengeance?” He finally asked. “I hope it isn’t myself.”

James’s hand hesitated over the last of the buttons and he looked up, blinking. “No. Of course not,” he said quietly, in a voice that was still husky but miraculously less irate.

He tossed his waistcoat onto the pile and walked across to sit down on the edge of the bed, his hair still dripping down his back. Frowning, Francis moved to join him, and without thinking reached down to retrieve a blanket from the foot of the bed. He was halfway through the motions before he realised what he was doing, but thankfully James was distracted enough now by the concerns of shoes and stockings to object to having the article draped over his shoulders with more than his standard eye roll. 

“You’ll soak through the bedclothes.”

“Most likely.” 

“Will you not tell me why, then?”

“Will I tell you why I am _wet_ after going out in the _rain_?” James did not bother looking up from the floor, where he was curling his toes against the carpet. 

“Oh, Christ. _James,_ ” Francis gestured at the man’s entirely undone appearance. “Like I said, this entire _adventure_ of yours is no less than I would have expected from you. But you know that isn’t what I’m asking.” 

James only lifted his feet off the floor to balance on the runner of the bed, where he could bury them under the hanging edges of the covers. Years of habit nagged at Francis to say some worried thing about him being _cold_ , though he managed to mostly quash the instinct for now and only reached out to cover one of James’s hands with his own. “ _Jesus!_ ” he hissed, flinching at the touch of freezing skin against his palm, but he said nothing else to James’s furrowed expression. 

“Why is it that this blasted city must always insist on making a goddamned spectacle out of other people’s misery?” James asked eventually, with a suddenness that felt like a jolt to the silent room. He was slouched forward, apparently addressing the carpet, and appealing to the air with his free hand. “They’ve had a year to reconcile themselves to our presence—almost an entire _year_ , Francis. One would think they would have satisfied their morbid curiosity by now.” 

“Someone recognised you out there? What fool is even out—?”

“No,” James interrupted, his lips set in a terse line. He waved it aside. “No,” he went on, “not anyone in particular. It’s that bloody Arctic bear painting, I mean. It’s gone to the printers, now.”

“Ah.” 

Francis needed no description to understand; the papers had made quite enough a fuss about it in recent weeks. Two white bears, tearing through the detritus of a ship’s boat at what was purported to be Fury Beach—how could Britain have been expected to ignore such a possible scene of grotesque wonder? Its appearance at the Royal Academy was too perfectly timed to not merit notice: _a stirring reminder of the perils our intrepid countrymen have braved in the name of discovery_ , reviewers had said of it. _There is nothing that could be more fitting, at this time when the nation at once mourns the loss of the gallant FRANKLIN, and celebrates the safe return of three of our most exalted polar heroes._ “Safe return?” Francis had roared when the first review appeared, thrusting the paper forthwith into the fire. “How much more of this absolute bollocks can they dredge up?” James, leaning against the back of his chair and reading over his shoulder, had been equally aghast; but they had determined it must be only the standard nonsense of fools who would never know the meaning of the phrase, hoped that it was simply gauche at worst, and endeavoured thenceforth to ignore it. 

“It’s not that I don’t understand the appeal of danger, viewed from afar,” James went on, drawing Francis out of his own recollections. “Fell for it myself, quite obviously. More than once I suppose. But not—not like this. That is—it’s rather worse than we thought.”

His voice trailed off briefly before delivering an abrupt, bitter groan toward the floor. The sharpened peaks of his knuckles pushed up into Francis’s palm as he clenched his hand against his knee. “They’ve drawn _bones_ , Francis. Ribs, jutting out of the ice, absorbed by it—and no one could mistake them for seal bones, whatever the explanation supposedly is. Watches and chains all around, and the bears, tearing into—the implication is obvious. _Fury Beach!_ No one is deluded enough to believe that title. The Admiralty certainly saw to that when they—“

“Oh, to hell with the bleeding Admiralty,” Francis finally cut in, leaning forward so that his shoulder brushed against James’s. “Damn them. We’ll never be rid of that report now. I hope they’re bloody well pleased with themselves.”

Ross’s report had been nothing if not discreet, of course. _A boat near the place the ships were abandoned_ , he remembered. _The remains of two of their unfortunate comrades, as well as the remains of their supplies...books, carpenter’s tools, a large number of watches…_ Ross had never implied anything _macabre_ , but nothing could ever stop the public from speculation once it had taken their fancy.

“Damn them,” he growled, louder. Damn the Royal Academy, and the printsellers; damn the newspapers for ever printing the account; and damn the Admiralty for having the gall to release it in the first place. Damn the entire blasted island that would never see those dead men as much more than fuel for their collectively gruesome imagination. 

“Francis?” James was looking at him with open concern, tilting his head to meet his eye, and regarding him in earnest for probably the first time that afternoon. Francis nodded weakly in response, realising it must be obvious that his mind had wandered into images far beyond the confines of Blackheath—beyond England, even. Images that James, thankfully, had never been given cause to understand. 

“No one ought to have known about that place at all,” James went on, as if sensing his thoughts. “Let alone plaster a reminder of it all on every wall in the city.” 

“No one _knows_ anything for certain, James. Only rumour.” 

“You do, though. You saw it—you saw everything Ross did when he went to find the others.” He did not ask now, but his tone carried the weight of questions asked a dozen times before. _I wish you would tell me. Imagining it is worse._

“I saw nothing conclusive,” Francis said, firmly, as always. _Knowing is always worse_ , he would promise him, if only he could allow himself to say even that much.

James was still staring at him, clearly unconvinced and nervously biting at the inside of his lip. But Francis only nodded once, with an indication of finality. 

Humming in resignation, James stretched out his feet to reach the floor again, and leaned slightly into the touch of their shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “By all rights it should affect you more than me. But I’ve spent so much of my own effort representing the expedition, and I had hoped I was making a proper commemoration of it. But then people fall for some lunacy from a man who knows nothing of it. And the men deserved better than to have their bodies put on display, fictionalised or not.” He seemed to falter on the words he needed to continue, channeling his nerves into absently toying with the cufflinks on one of his sleeves instead. “I feel it—like I’m still responsible for them. Always will, probably. I would give them their dignity, at least. We both know it could just as soon have been me, in that boat, like that—” 

“But it _wasn’t_ you.” _No, not_ like that. _Jesus, never like_ that. In search of distraction, Francis raised a hand to brush the wayward strands of hair away from James’s eyes, but once he did he found he could not stop. He found himself combing the hair around his ears, allowing his fingers to carelessly sweep over the familiar margins of his face. James had no conception of what he had implied, of course, but now Francis could not bar the image from his mind—the face of another man, dull and hollow eyes staring out from dull and withered skin, the Arctic sun glinting off the shocking array of gold watch-chains that hung from the whole affair like cobwebs in a crypt. Ross’s account had never suggested such a thing, of course, though neither did it preclude the possibility. But he blinked and forced himself to see only the face of the man before him, only James, uncharacteristically unkempt, but alive and entirely himself.

“Francis. What are you doing?” James’s voice was low and almost concerned. He appeared rather startled at this seemingly unprompted gesture, but even so one of his hands had come to rest around Francis’s back. 

“Oh.” For all his efforts to keep his thoughts from wandering, he still had to shake himself to comprehend what James had asked. It was impossible to provide any real explanation, given that he hardly had an idea of what he was doing, himself—given especially that his fingers had entangled themselves deeper into James’s hair and were now tracing the hollow at the back of his neck of their own accord. “I—that is, nothing that required much thought, apparently.” 

“Clearly...”

“Don’t suspect I was entirely remiss, though,” he went on, awkwardly clearing his throat and attempting a smile. “Hardly seen your face since you came back, behind this great tangled mess.” His fingers caught in a knotted section behind his ear, as if to prove the point. “I mean, honestly. Your attempts to care for yourself truly have been sorely lacking, this afternoon.” 

James squinted at him but said nothing. Usually he would have found some new exasperated way of shouting Francis’s name, and probably would have smacked a hand against his shoulder, but now he only dragged his fingers along the front of his coat, darting among the double rows of buttons before settling over his heart. 

“Truly, though, James. I needn’t tell you that you have given them more dignity in your memorials than anyone else could have. You drew them, alive, as they were and ought to be remembered—men whose families would never have seen their faces again if it weren’t for you.” 

James still said nothing, but Francis could see through his hair that his ears had gone red, and he grinned in spite of himself at the sight. 

“You can’t be responsible for every bad idea this city comes up with,” he added. “You didn’t paint the damned thing and you didn’t print it. Oh,” his hand paused in its progress across the curve of his shoulder. “It isn’t Westall who engraved it, is it?” 

“No,” James almost laughed. “The man has better sense, thank goodness.” 

“Good. Well then, I believe you still have a monopoly on the best engraver in town, at that. Some good may come of this after all. Especially if Lady Franklin has her way.” 

“What’s that, now?”

“I’ve heard she hates it as much as you do. Though I didn’t quite imagine what must be the full extent or reasoning until now. Refuses all invitations to see it, in fact.” 

“God! I’d like to hear her replies. I may have to embrace her when we see her next.” James tilted his head back, so his neck curved against Francis’s hand, and regarded him from the corner of his eye. “Do you think that’s permitted?” 

“At the commemoration gala? It would be the scandal of the evening. That is, if it were anyone but you, of course.” 

“Hm. Not even you? I hear you were great friends in Van Diemen’s Land.” 

“I’m not exactly the type, James.” 

“Duly noted.” He slid his arm further around Francis’s back as if to protest this claim, but only succeeded in startling him by bringing the side of his face into contact with a mass of still-damp hair, which was shockingly cold in the unheated room. 

“Good God!” Francis exclaimed, pushing him aside with such a look of consternation that James actually laughed, sincerely.

“Right then,” he proclaimed, standing and turning to face James with folded arms. “I’ve distracted you long enough, I’m sure. You’d better get changed out of the rest of this and join me downstairs where it’s actually warm. If you catch cold because of this exploit of yours I swear you’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Never on your watch, Francis,” James grinned, already occupied with the fastenings of his cuffs. 

“Exactly.” He turned to leave, but looked back over his shoulder as if remembering something. “And if I find that you’ve tried to go back to sleep, _again_ , I promise I’ll send Neptune up here to drag you out of bed.” 

“He’s an old dog,” James retorted. “He’d never manage it. I believe I’m perfectly safe from that threat.”

Seemingly provoked by this, Francis turned on his heel, and in a swift motion got both of his hands around James’s shoulder blades and hauled him upright. “ _Never_ underestimate,” he said in a low voice, inches from James’s astonished face, and immediately released him. 

“I wasn’t prepared!” James shouted at his back as he opened the door. Francis said nothing through his serious facade, but only raised one eyebrow, and nodded. 

“I reject the conclusions of that exchange!” James’s voice echoed down the hall after him as he descended the stairs. “Francis Crozier, you absolute _villain_!” He was apparently standing in the doorway from which Francis had just left, watching him, but Francis would not indulge him by turning around. He only lowered his head and bit his lip to stifle his amusement, finally grinning as James’s own ridiculous laugher was muffled by the sound of a door closing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I didn't get any literary references into this chapter--what is wrong with me? But, I did invent a political cartoon, a painting, an expedition report, and two art reviews, so that's something. Here are some historical notes:
> 
> -The joke the satirical magazine _Punch_ makes about the Act of Union refers to a parliamentary Act of 1801 that joined the UK and Ireland. During and after the Napoleonic wars, the Navy was sometimes used as a symbol of this unity, since sailors from all kingdoms served the monarch and their nation in supposed harmony. So if James, Francis, and Ross had indeed become inseparable friends after their celebrated adventures, I can almost _guarantee_ that this cartoon would have existed, in one form or another. 
> 
> -Neptune survives, because according to [Inuit testimony](https://www.canadianmysteries.ca/sites/franklin/archive/text/HallTeekeeta_en.htm), the tracks of four white men and a dog were seen in 1849/50. Was this dog Neptune? We'll never know, but I like to imagine that Neptune made it to the end! 
> 
> -The _Philosophical Transactions_ is the journal of the Royal Society. Francis most certainly would spend a lot of time reading it, and would likely even write for it once he readjusted to life in England.
> 
> -Francis Crozier really did go on a Grand Tour of Europe, upon returning from the Antarctic expedition in 1842. He was noted to be dealing with depression at the time, and the Admiralty granted him extended leave so he could have some time to manage it. Ostensibly the purpose of traveling was so he could recover from a broken heart dealt to him by ~~James Ross~~ Sophia Cracroft. 
> 
> -James's monologue (off-screen) about Gothic architecture was probably a paraphrase of John Ruskin, who had recently published an [extended essay](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Seven_Lamps_of_Architecture) on the matter. Since my version of James is rather taken with historic places, ruins, and such, he would probably have absolutely loved Ruskin. 
> 
> -The story about James saving a drowning man from the river Mersey, while the Euphrates expedition was fitting out in Liverpool in 1835, is probably well-known among the fandom, But if you haven't heard, [here it is](https://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/61955.html), with the silver presentation cup that was awarded to him for it! 
> 
> -The painting I invent for this story is clearly based on [_Man Proposes, God Disposes_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Proposes,_God_Disposes#/media/File:Manproposesgoddisposes.jpg), painted by Edwin Landseer and exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1864. The painting features two polar bears, some maritime detritus, and _human ribs_. It was conceived after the expedition of Sir Francis Leopold McClintock, whose search was funded by Lady Jane Franklin, and confirmed that no one had survived. McClintock's search resulted in the discovery of the Victory Point Note, which confirmed the abandonment of the ships and the death of Sir John. 
> 
> However, if the expedition had been partially rescued, such a painting could have been produced earlier (either by Landseer, or any number of other artists). The site that I imagine it depicting is one that comes from [Inuit testimony](https://www.canadianmysteries.ca/sites/franklin/archive/text/TooktoocheerGilder_en.htm), recorded by Frederick Schwatka in 1881. A woman named Tooktoocheer told Schwatka of a boat that contained two bodies, one of which provides a familiar image to _Terror_ fans: "One body — the one with flesh on — had a gold chain fastened to gold ear-rings, and a gold hunting-case watch with engine-turned engraving attached to the chain, and hanging down about the waist." Also at this site, Inuit reported having seen a box full of human bones (some people have interpreted this as a coffin, but others have a more gruesome explanation), books, instruments, etc.  
> This is one of two sites that Inuit testimony has referred to as the ["Boat Place,"](https://visionsnorth.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-boat-places.html) both of which are thought to have been near Erebus Bay on King William Island, where it is suspected that the ships may have been anchored for some time before the second abandonment. I imagine that Ross discovered this site during his search, and he and Francis conspired to write an account that gave the general facts but obscured the grisly end that these men had met. This is why the painting includes bones and watches, but any idea the public has of cannibalism is just speculation.
> 
> Lady Franklin truly did hate Landseer's painting and called it disrespectful.


End file.
